Being Mr Harold Sigerson
by PinkPawPrints
Summary: Sherlock returns to London in the guise of an aging book-keeper living directly across Baker Street from John while the dark forces of Moriarty still plague the streets undetected. Can he overcome his own demons in time to save both their lives?


**So, as promised, here is the beginning of another fanfiction! ^^ Please tell me if you like it or not and whether I should continue or find another idea; I loooove criticism. :) It starts out almost humorously, but soon becomes rather angsty...**

Mr. Harold Sigerson was a very quiet, slightly muddle older gentleman of relatively average height and build, save a small ring of paunchy stomach about his middle. His hair was still thick and wiry, receding ever-so-slightly from the edges of his forehead but without any signs of true baldness amidst the lush salt-and-pepper tufts of curls. He was stooped, with a duck-like walk and outturned knees, and yet still somehow retained a great deal of youthful vigor in his manner, a ready smile always keen to turn up the corners of the pale, hollow-cheeked jowls beneath a bushy gray moustache whenever I took the time to help him unlock his door or carry in his groceries. I preformed these services rather frequently, as his home, which Mrs. Hudson often referred to as 'the Camden House' in memory of its previous owners, was located directly across from my flat.

The inside of his home was lavishly furnished with hanging Middle Eastern drapery, thick rugs, candles, embroidered couches, the lingering scent of pipe-smoke, and, of course, books. Mr. Sigerson was in love with books. They lined every available surface within the dimly-lit confines of number 220, filling innumerable oak-paneled shelves against the walls, piled on the floor in cluttered heaps, scattered across the countertops, the sofas, the side-tables, and even stacked up in the sink amongst the dirty dishes. However richly decorated his little house may have been, the old man was quite possibly one of the most untidy human beings I'd ever met.

Of course, being an ex-soldier and a practicing doctor did not exactly instill in me a love for filth and disarray. On many occasions during the three month period in which Mr. Sigerson lived across from me, I offered to lend a hand in cleaning up; however, each time I did so, he would politely decline in his odd, practically inaudible whisper of a voice and shake his head vehemently.

He was a strange man, most certainly, but a kind one and somehow, though I hardly knew him, I felt I could trust him implicitly.

"Moran," I snarled in the phone by way of greeting, "Colonel Sebastian Moran."

Mycroft's calmly irritated sigh sent waves of static through the line. "You've been repeating this name to me incessantly for days, Sherlock. I've already told you. I'm keeping tabs on him."

"Where is he, then? Tell me. Right now, where is he?"

There was a frustrated hesitation in his voice as he responded after a slight pause. "You're panting, your sentences are choppy, and I can quite literally hear you _spitting_ on the phone as you speak. You're high, aren't y—"

"Where_ is_ he, Mycroft?"

"I want you to go take a shower, drink some water, and sleep it off, alright? Call me back when you can handle speaking on the phone like a normal human be—"

"Fuck off!" I snapped, my face twisting in fury, heart leaping wildly as one of my legs unfolded itself from beneath me and struck out at the empty air without my conscious consent, "Just tell me where Moran is."

But he had already hung up.

"_Mycroft_," I muttered under my breath like a heinous curse, "Pompous, narcissistic, moronic brat. The country's in debt, you know. You've betrayed me once already. I don't need you. You're obese and ugly. Go take a shower yourself."

Leaning heavily on a claw-footed armchair, I dragged myself to my feet and, swaying familiarly, fell toward the window, long, pale hands catching the sill. Cold was seeping in from the outside. No, heat was escaping. Cold was the absence of heat. I was feeling rather cold myself.

"Idiot. Why couldn't you just tell me where he is? You probably don't know. You don't. Do you? No. Hmmm. Fuck you, _Mycroft_."

The window was full of hostile blackness encircling its claws around the innocent square of light of our parlor window. No, _John's_ parlor window. Still covered in that ridiculous patterned wallpaper. Still full of the same furniture. Still so very unchanged. Golden-brown, nostalgic, enrapturing. Warm.

"No one wants your company; you have no friends. You're absolutely ludicrous. A horrible brother. Egotistical, antisocial, unreliable..."

John.

He was wearing his black and white jumper. It was faded, molded to his body shape, as soft as newborn kitten fur. He was carrying a mug of tea. He was walking. He was sitting on the sofa. He was laying his head back and sighing at the ceiling.

"..a _fake._"

Maybe he couldn't sleep. He couldn't sleep a lot of the time. He was rubbing his leg, the old wound. He was limping a bit. He had been when he'd helped me with the groceries this morning. Almost imperceptibly, yet still noticeable to my eyes.

"Nobody wants you. You're alone. You're purposeless. You have no further use. They're going to come and kill you..."

John was standing now. Straightening the knees on his pajama pants. Downing the last of his tea. Setting down the mug on the side table. Walking to the door. Limping ever-so-slightly.

Turning out the light.

"Maybe you should do it yourself instead," I whispered at my reflection in the darkened window.


End file.
